Monachopsis
by livewiresandwildfires
Summary: A year after MI6, Alex isn't quite the same. He wonders if he will ever feel normal, or if he will always be just a little bit out of place.


**Warnings:** Underaged/illegal drinking

**Rated:** T

**Summary:** A year after MI6, Alex isn't quite the same.

**Disclaimer:** All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.

* * *

The back of the club is dominated by darkness and drunk people. The erratic stamps of people who think they can dance. The bitter scent of alcohol pungent in the air. Alex has his own drink in hand, half full as it has been for the past hour. A single sip almost has him gagging on the lukewarm beverage. Anyone who says they like the taste of straight alcohol is either lying, or drunk.

Hiding in this obscure corner had been a decent attempt to distance himself from the blasting music. The speakers vibrate all around, but at least here he is as far from the DJ as possible. Also, far from his friends as well.

Which maybe isn't the kindest of him, stepping away from his group. Tom had arranged this, and he felt bad for bailing. He should probably get back before they took notice, which will be sooner rather than later. It is _his _birthday, after all.

He takes another short swig from his drink, then a longer draft, ignoring the taste and letting a pleasant buzz overcome him. Alex takes his cue to leave from a slightly older couple pushing up against the wall next to him, snogging passionately.

Walking confidently through the crowded dance floor, Alex expertly navigates past the swaying bodies. The alcohol buzzes pleasantly in his brain, but hasn't managed to touch his equilibrium yet.

Sprawled across some couches, drinks in hand and laughing obnoxiously, are his friends. Tom has just cracked another of his relentless jokes.

Alex slaps a smile on and collapses next to Tom, who smiles impishly in return. Apparently, he has returned just in time for shots. Joy.

A small glass of clear liquid smacks down in front of him with a _there you go, mate. Bottoms up_. It sloshes around a bit, dribbling over the sides. Tom smacks his shoulder - a little harder than necessary, but that can be blamed on the alcohol already scoring his veins.

Something was said over the blaring music, but the words are indistinct. He traces the pattern of Tom's lips with his eyes, getting the general idea: _Ready?_

Alex nodded and grinned, his cheek muscles protesting. He watched Tom mouth _one, two, three_, and throws his drink back in one. It barely burns going down.

Just because Alex doesn't particularly like drinking, doesn't mean he isn't more than capable of holding his own. He wasn't lacking experience.

Tom shouts drunkenly over the music, pumping the air with a fist. His other mates' cheer and clap, exhibiting their varying states of sobriety (or lack thereof). Alex joins in, leaning backwards.

He feels the eyes on him, then. Not the innocent ones of his pals; outsider eyes. He glances up, worried that they are being too obnoxious and are attracting unwanted attention. His eyes meet with a man at the bar. Familiar.

"I'm going to fetch another round!" Alex shouts, and is met with whooping appraisals.

He got a few more too-hard shoulder pats as he crossed towards the bar.

He saddles up to the bar, waving a hand at the bartender and trying to look like he is having a good time. Next to him, his old coworker glances from the side of his eyes.

"Hey Cub, didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah?" Alex asks, sitting down to wait while the bartender deals with another customer. "Feeling is mutual. Thought you were off getting shot at, what happened?"

The smile he receives is, well, wolffish. Canine teeth glinting in the strobe lights of the club. "Got shot."

Alex can't suppress the wince of sympathy. His own bullet wound throbs with phantom pain. The memory of his own close call with a sniper.

"What about the rest of the guys? They make it back in one piece?" K unit had not been the friendliest - had not been friendly in any sense of the word, really - but Alex still hoped they were safe.

Wolf shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, though Alex knows the man cares about his teammates more than almost anything. "More or less," Wolf answers.

Alex hums. He'd forgotten how close-lipped soldiers could be.

"And what about you, kid?" Wolf asks. "You old enough to be in here?"

Alex grins and flashes his fake ID at the bartender, giving his order. If MI6 were going to set him up with contacts to make fake identities, Alex was going to take advantage. The man went off to fetch a tray of shots.

Anyway, if Alex is old enough to go on missions, get shot, and go to space (among other things) he is old enough to drink. Fair is fair.

Wolf's eyes skim the ID - the flickering light makes it hard to make out the detail, a fact that Alex has taken advantage of. Eyes squinting, head tilting, lips parting. Alex unconsciously leans forward to hear what Wolf is about to say.

"Happy Birthday, Cub."

Biting his lip to suppress a grin, Alex glances at the card in his hand. Real birthday, just a few years earlier.

"Thanks," Alex says, and means it.

A clatter of glass and metal signifies the arrival of his tray of shots. Tequila this time - and maybe mixing alcohol wasn't his wisest choice, but it was his birthday so he would do whatever the hell he wanted.

His barstool screeches as he stands, taking the tray in one hand, spinning it on the top of his finger like a basketball. After a couple more shots, Alex doubted he would be able to do that.

"Give me a call what you _really _turn eighteen," Wolf told him, nursing a half-empty beer bottle. "The guys and I will take you out."

"I look forward to it."

How would Wolf react, answering a call three years from now and realizing exactly how young Alex was? It was an amusing enough thought.

Alex wondered if, in three years, he would remember to pick up the phone. Either of them.

From atop a table, Tom calls out a greeting. Alex can't tell if his mate is more excited to see him, or the tequila. (Probably the tequila).

Alex sets the tray down with a sharp clang. A few drinks later, his head begins to spin. Glancing over his shoulder - not entirely certain why he is doing so - he spies two empty bar seats. Something in his heart twists; he does not let it show.

He smiles and dances and downs drinks like he is fresh out of the desert. His vision is hazy, and when no one is watching, he glances over his shoulder. When no one is watching, the corners of his mouth downturn.

Maybe in three years, things will be different. But just now, Alex is the only thing that is different.

* * *

**Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place**


End file.
